Eternity
by AMs-han
Summary: It's her. It's him. And that's not always enough.


MY GOD. IT'S DIALOGUE. AND IT'S LENGTH. GOOD GOD.

okay. i find this piece to be really...random. there were a lot of ideas in my head that i wanted to work with - but i wasn't really sure how i wanted to deliver on them. somehow - they were put where they were put and as usual - i'm not quite satisfied. it's a little too melodramatic for my taste and not enough just...quiet, subtle angst. and the tense of the fic is a bit...weird, at first. but it feels right to me - for whatever reason. sort of a Time issue - with Eternity, but living in the moment... /istoorambly

that said - enjoy :D

**Notice:**  
1) this should occur about a year or so after Stars.

**ETERNITY**

_It's her. It's him. And that's not always enough._

* * *

"Hey. What are you doing over here?"

She turns her head slightly, her fingers falling away from the glass, to look at him. She's so little - and that's a known fact, he observes, but it's more obvious in contrast to the broadness of his multi-panel, picture windows. His upper half leans against the coolness of the glass with lean legs stretched out in front of him, tips of his soles touching the floor, and hands in his lap.

She shrugs, arms tightening over her propped up leg as she resumes her position; eyes soaking up the cityscape before her.

"Brooding is my thing, love."

She can't help but smile at that.

He teasingly says, "So I get to come home to this? Not exactly the warm welcome I had hoped."

"Ne."

"The muted Odango speaks."

She lets him soak in the humor.

"Did you know? It's hard to count raindrops. I keep losing count."

He looks across his apartment, mulling over her words.

"I've got a story for you," he says cheerily.

(Somehow, in the furnace of his brain - he realizes there's some out of characterization here. She's brooding. He's "cheerily." She's him. He's her.)

She doesn't turn towards him.

(Which is wrong. She always looks at him. Bright, crystal blue eyes.)

"When I was younger," he starts quietly. Because this is a sensitive matter for him and even as "cheerily" as he may be, it's... He swallows, fingers combing over sable locks in frustration as he scrambles to find the lost words.

He finds Solace and Warmth, in form of fingers curling over Fidgety his.

(But she still doesn't look at him.)

"When I was younger," he begins again. Stronger and firmer, this time.

"When I began living here - when they let me be more independent - there was no time to furnish the apartment. I was too busy getting enrolled into Moto-Azabu as a first year, in their junior section... Slept on a couch for a while - and it was more than enough for me. I had the money, but... I was just too busy to buy furniture."

(When did he become so talkative? Why is she still not looking at him. Because there is no question mark; it isn't a question. It's a statement, declaration, complaint.)

He's Nervous. She's Quiet.

(And he's always Nervous, with her. She's Never Quiet.)

"I used to sit right here and look out these windows," he continues, "and I'd count the raindrops. But I remember... At one point - I wasn't even counting them, not consciously. I just knew...how many raindrops there were. On the windowpane. On my neighbors'. Motoki's. On the peak of the Tokyo Tower. Out in the city. And then, eventually - in the whole planet."

"Hm," she responds softly, profile lit by the soft concentration of streetlights and pale moonlight, cheek pressed as she continues through the looking glass.

"I knew, also, how many seconds, hours, days, weeks, months it would take for a flower or a plant to grow after a rainfall. Even the smallest bud's arrival. And, I suppose I should have thought it strange... But there were already so many anomalies about me, that I categorized it under everything else and disregarded it."

(She's supposed to marvel at his story - it's her nature. Not be so stoic. That's _his_ nature.)

"Usa," he says quietly. Because if he wasn't worried before - and he was - he's Worried now.

"I was just wondering," she cuts in, as if knowing what he's asking. And he doesn't even know his question.

"Oh," he just says.

There is silence, except the tap dancing of raindrops on glass windows and the humming of electronics. The rhythm is echoed by the gentle throbbing of her pulse against his fingertips.

And damn if he doesn't have enough confidence to speak up. He knows that there's something up. The tension has been there the moment he came home. When Motoki and the girls came to get him from the airport. Came to welcome him home from America.

Four hours after the party. After Makoto's exceptional cooking, Ami's sharing of what she's learned from school, Minako's gushing of the newest idols in Japan. After Michiru's inquiries of what he saw in America and exchanging stories of her own from her tour days, Haruka's accompanying stories to her girlfriend's. After Setsuna's quiet elation in the present, at the very gathering of them all, with all of her soft smiles and gentle gazes. Rei's sharing of stories from the ceremonies the Hikawa Temple has had to host and conduct - weddings, funerals, death anniversaries, the like. Hotaru's enthusiasm of entering a new school year. After those four hours, they all left. So as to allot time for Usagi and Mamoru.

And, damn if he can't even have the confidence to say anything.

So the saturation of tap dancing of raindrops on glass windows and humming of electronics taunt him. Taunt him for his lack of words. For his lack of expression.

(So many years after and he thought... He thought he'd _never_ have to feel so guilty for being..._him_, around her, ever again. Because he thought it would be enough - for _him_ - if she accepted him for who he was. Because she was all accepting and love. And she still _is_. But the difference is - _he_ still doesn't accept himself for who he was and is. He never has and probably never will.)

"I feel like I can't really talk to you anymore. Not like before. Is that wrong?" she whispers (is that Guilt, he thinks in horrification? And horrification isn't a word, but thatdoesn'tmatterrightnow) as she clutches his wrist.

And for that singular moment - everything crashes.

Thunder clap.

(Literal. Not figurative. But then the lines blend because there is thunder and it's both _suddenly_ literal and figurative. And it's all so very ridiculously dramatic and he would laugh, but he can't, but he feels like he could. Because it's one of those moments in life where you're laughing at something that isn't even remotely funny - but there's no other way to respond, so you keep laughing.)

He takes this moment as Important - not that all other moments in his life aren't important - but Important because something is wrong and that something isn't school, family, friends. That something is Wrong with her.

Herherherherher.

Why not himhimhimhimhim?

If it was because of him - that's something he can do something about. Tha-

He almost yelps when she rips (Okay. She doesn't rip. But it feels like a rip. This whole conversation feels like a rip. And he feels like laughing again.) away from him. When she releases her hold on him.

And suddenly, her arms are tight around him and they're both on the floor.

Tap dancing on glass windows and humming of electronics are accompanied by breaths of surprise.

There's nothing remotely romantic about the position they're in - being wound together. And his erratic pulse has to deal with her - and his affection towards her - but not in the way he supposes it should be dealing with, when they're in a position like this. Like kissing or something towards that light, that is supposed to occur at this juncture.

But instead.

(Instead.)

His hand curls over the small of her back gently, "Usako."

"It's almost- No. It is. Ridiculous," she starts hyperventilating, "that...and I... And I'm so worried. About _everything_. And I'm not _ready_ about anything, Mamo-chan, and I'm scared and-"

"Breathe, Usa," he says as he slowly entangles her arms around him, positioning her so she can gently roll over to lie beside him. Their hands pull away from the other.

There is silence, except the tap dancing of raindrops on glass windows and the humming of electronics. The rhythm is echoed by the gentle throbbing of individual pulses.

"I know we talk," she says oh-so-quietly with a whimper, "on the phone. But it's not the same... It's stupid, too. Because it's not like we're never going to be able to talk. We'll be together. Forever. An _eternity_ for talking. And I have so much to say. But it's not the same."

(And it_ will_ be an Eternity. They'll live countless centuries. It's not the cliché, corny "we'll be together, forever." It's their Reality.)

She's not going to tell him what's Wrong. And he doesn't need to hear her.

Because he already sort of gets it.

He died. Then he lived again. He left. Then it was - and has been - a year. And he's going to go back to study some more.

They talk. But talking over the phone isn't the same.

She wants to tell him everything. Her fears. Her concerns. Her hopes. Her bliss. The future is an oncoming storm. And she's still young. They all are.

She and the girls talk about these issues, but the girls tell her that she should also tell him. He should know about all of this, from her.

And the girls are hoping - maybe he'll have words of advice and consolement, to help their own emotional states. He's always been there - to help him in their moments - like their big brother.

But.

He isn't there.

He died. He lived again. He left again. It's been a year. He's going to go back.

They talk, but a phone isn't the same.

There is silence, save for the tap dancing of raindrops on glass windows and the humming of electronics. The rhythm is echoed by the gentle throbbing of individual pulses.

"I'm going to marry you."

(That's all he can offer.)

"I know."

"We'll be together."

(And somehow, he knows that doesn't fix the problem. She knows it too.)

"I know."

They won't always be happy.

Eternity's like that.

* * *

"horrification" - by the way, is definitely not a word. but i tend to make up words a lot, despite the fact that i can use a multtiude of words to replace "horrification." /isstrange

also! moto-azabu school, for those that don't know, is both a junior and high school in the manga canon. mamoru, i suspect, moved into the azabu district of minato-ku itself, sometime around his junior high years. lord knows why his previous guardians allowed him to live on his own.

speaking of mamoru - i've always thought Takeuchi should have always furthered his psychometry and his Kinzuishou (fan-name, i know. shhh) powers. sort of bummed whenever i realized she never did :l. he was always incredibly hypersensitive to things in the environment, kind of like how Mako-chan noticed the electricity breakout and had...well, a rather adverse effect to it. that said, any opportunity i have in fics to use creative license and mix it with canon - i take it. though i rarely post said fics, 'cause i'm worried i'm rewriting Mamoru somehow. buut - Senshi'sBard writing of Mamoru's powers, which is one of the best by the by, convinced me to post this one up. sort of made me feel better about writing his powers. though she does so much a better job than i do.

and somehow - i can't help but feel that for how much the two of them - usa and mamoru - depend on each other - it's almost disastrous. ...oh hell. more fic ideas.

/runsaway


End file.
